


When The Snow Comes Down

by PlatinumAndPercocet



Series: Hallmark Holidays [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Band, Christmas, Colorado, Kid Fic, M/M, SO FLUFFY I WANT TO DIE, Secrets and lives, Storms, The Grandma Clique
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 15:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13080252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/pseuds/PlatinumAndPercocet
Summary: Sometimes in order to find what is really missing, you need to get a little lost.Written for Have Yourself Some Merry Little Peterick 2017





	When The Snow Comes Down

**Author's Note:**

> So. This was originally going to be something else, just a brief little one shot. I was going to do something else entirely, all of the angst and sadness but then I saw a post on Tumblr and this took over. I'm not sorry. 
> 
> This was written for the Have Yourself A Merry Little Peterick collection organized by SnitchesAndTalkers, Das_Verlorene_Kind, and Flames_And_Jade. I can honestly say I have had a blast writing this and I am humbled by the amazing company. Make sure you check out all of the amazing stories the other authors have put up, I promise you, you won't be sorry. Don't forget the kudos and comments, they make the world go round, especially at this busy time of year. 
> 
> This was beta read by the illustrious Semi_Sweet whom I ADORE even when she yells at me in comments. Thank you to the ends of the earth. 
> 
> Laudanum_Cafe, SnitchesAndTalkers and Semi_Sweet have been instrumental during the writing of this, holding my hand and cheerleading more than I deserve, especially when I watched the Hallmark channel for HOURS in the name of research. I hope you all like it. Happy reading. 
> 
> Aural Satisfaction: Yule Shoot Your Eye Out by Fall Out Boy

Patrick hated driving in the snow. It was weird for a Lake Effect kid from the suburbs of Chicago, but he had spent the majority of the last decade in Los Angeles, whether he wanted to or not; there was not a whole lot of call for snow tires in The Valley. Correction, he hated driving in the snow on roads he didn’t know. Even more specifically though, he hated driving in in the snow, on unfamiliar roads with such precious cargo. He let his gaze drift from the barely visible windshield to the mirror that was trained on the back seat. Wiley was pretty oblivious, honestly, singing along to whatever music was flowing through the My Little Pony headphones that were plugged firmly into her tablet, bundled up in the purple outdoor gear that she had so proudly chosen herself especially for this trip. There was a possibility that the four-year-old was more excited about this trip than Patrick himself was. She had grown up, for the majority of her short life so far, in LA, surrounded forever by heat and sun, so when the invitation to spend a week in Aspen with Sara’s parents came, well, there was no way Patrick could possibly turn that down. 

The thought of Wiley’s mother always filled Patrick with sorrow still, even after four years. They hadn’t planned on having a child, hell they weren’t really together. She had been his best friend, and he hers, and the night that Patrick had been nominated for a Grammy, much to everyone’s surprise, they had downed a bottle of very, very expensive scotch and one thing led to another. Nine months later, she was gone, buried before Wiley had even left the hospital, and Patrick was left with a tiny, perfect bundle that he had to navigate the world with. 

He had done pretty well the last four years, at least he liked to hope so. Wiley seemed pretty well adjusted; she knew her dad had a job different than most parents, but she didn’t know exactly what it was that he did, not in a way that she could really quantify. Most four-year-olds hadn’t spent nearly half of their life on a tour bus but that was normal for Wiley, and she just rolled with it. She definitely had her mother’s temperament, even if she was all Patrick in almost every other aspect. 

The radio had stopped cooperating almost an hour ago, the dulcet melodies of the carols that seemingly every station played in constant rotation for the week leading up to Christmas giving way to bursts of static and a constant fuzz emanating from the speakers. Combined with the wind that whipped around his safe but suddenly ridiculous feeling Mercedes SUV and the snow that was not stopping anytime soon, Patrick was on edge. His GPS had gone out almost the moment they had started creeping through the mountains at a nearly glacial pace, and he knew, he KNEW, that they were hopelessly lost. 

Blowing out a heavy breath, he let his gaze snap back to focus on the road, gripping the wheel in white-knuckled hands as he squinted desperately through smudged glasses and the haze of white outside at the glimmer of green and reflective writing that shone in the slight gleam of headlights that just barely reached it. Without thinking, Patrick followed the sign, slowing nearly to a crawl until he could feel the road change under the tires, just barely. The smooth pavement of the interstate, such as it was, gave to a rougher, no doubt less meticulously maintained road. 

He could just barely make out a smattering of buildings and a few streetlights that glinted through the storm that seemed to be picking up, somehow. That was to be expected, he supposed. What wasn’t expected, however, was the flash of headlights and a glimmer of orange approaching far too fast for his comfort. Fuck. Patrick gripped the wheel and turned, praying to a God he had long since stopped believing in that Wiley, his little girl, and entire world, would be okay just before everything went white and the car stopped with sickening thud. 

The last thing that Patrick remembered was Wiley crying and when it was silent as he opened his eyes, the panic that raced down his spine was icy cold and paralyzing. “Wiley, Wiles?” He shot up from what was decidedly not his car, or his bed for that matter, and fought against the wave of nausea that slammed through him. 

“Daddy!” Just the sound of his daughter’s voice calmed Patrick more than he could possibly say, and as soon as he saw her strawberry blonde braids and bright smile as she bounced over to him from… somewhere, he let himself sit back down as he opened his arms. Wiley was okay, that was all that mattered; everything else was secondary. “How’s your head, Daddy?” A small, warm hand brushed across Patrick’s forehead and he winced, even at the gentle touch but gave the little girl in his lap a smile. 

“I’m alright, Sunshine, just a little sore.” It wasn’t entirely true, but there was only so much that a four-year-old could comprehend. She seemed to be okay thank God. More than okay actually, and Patrick sat back against the apparent couch that he had been laying on to watch her for a moment while taking in his surroundings. Her coat, boot and snow pants had been doffed and she was skipping around in her ivory striped sweater dress and yellow leggings, one purple sock halfway off; she was smiling brightly as she climbed up next to him. 

“Okay, Daddy. Hey, Remy’s dad said I should get him when you woke up, to make sure you didn’t have a conces- consess- a bad headrake.” The girl stumbled over the unfamiliar words and Patrick couldn’t hide his smile as he tweaked one of her braids. Remy? Remy’s dad? He had far more questions than answers but for now, he was going to take it one step at a time. 

“Okay, Wyles, you go ahead but call if you need any help, okay?” Patrick was leery of sending his daughter to find some unnamed man, but the fact that there was another child, or there seemed to be, in the picture… well, it did very little to soothe Patrick’s already frazzled nerves. Wylie planted a jelly-sticky kiss on Patrick’s cheek before dashing off again, her stocking feet pattering against the shiny hardwood floors. Squinting at the blob in front of the couch that appeared to be a table, he reached out, more than slightly blindly, until his fingers brushed across his glasses and he slipped them on, blinking as his surroundings came slowly into view. 

He was in a living room of some sort, that was a given. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace across the expansive room, and a Christmas tree glowed in front of a large bay window that faced out into a seemingly endless stretch of white. The clear lights illuminated silver, blue and purple ornaments as well as a pile of well-wrapped gifts beneath it. There were shelves that lined every wall and nearly overflowed with books, vinyl, and games that were organized… somehow. Doorways stood at each end of the room and as curious as Patrick was to see what lay beyond them, especially the one that Wiley just vanished through, the dizziness in his head prevented that. Fortunately, he heard his daughter’s infectious giggle, along with another child’s laugh, just before two heads popped into the room and slid on stocking feet towards the couch, crashing against it in a fit of giggles. 

“Wiley Grace Stump, are you supposed to run inside?” Although Patrick had no idea what the rules were here, he knew how they stood at home and his daughter immediately looked at least somewhat chastised. A little. Okay, not really at all. There was the smallest of smiles on her lips as she glanced at her new friend who shared in her mischief. 

“Sorry, Daddy. This is my friend Remy. His dad owns the hotel and helped us when you crashed our car!” The memories came back in a flash after Wiley finished talking. Not entirely, mind you, but Patrick could remember strong hands and warm eyes but it was all a bit of a blur. 

“Hi, Wiley’s dad!” The little boy’s voice pulled him from whatever attempts at recollection that he may have had, and Patrick shifted his gaze to the little boy. He had a head of bright blonde hair, twinkling hazel eyes and a lopsided grin that was punctured with a missing front tooth. Beneath a crisp flannel, he could see a Ramones t-shirt, identical to one that Wiley had at home, and there were bright green converse on his feet. 

“Remy, how do we introduce ourselves to strangers?” The new voice floated across the room from the doorway that the two kids had just ran in from and Patrick turned to see the latest addition to their little group leaning against the doorframe. The man was taller than he was, which was not exactly a stunning feat, with dark, messy hair, toffee tinted skin even in the dead of winter, a wide grin that was all white teeth and mirth and eyes that matched the little boy that Patrick presumed was his son. They were dressed alike, although the man had hints of dark ink peeking out from beneath the slightly pushed up sleeves of his flannel shirt and well-worn jeans were tucked into a pair of black boots. He held a tray in his hands filled with a variety of mugs and bowls that steamed invitingly and Patrick’s stomach grumbled as he realized he had no actual clue when the last time he had eaten was. Or, you know, what time it was. Judging by the darkness of what little bit of the sky that he could actually see, it was either very late or very early. He hoped for the former. 

The little boy huffed out a breath in that very specific, put-upon way that only the very young could manage and held out a hand. “Remington Kingston Wentz, it’s nice to meet you, Wiley’s dad.”

Patrick couldn’t help but smile at the boy’s enthusiasm. “Well hi, Remy. My name is Patrick, it is very nice to meet you too.” 

“Good job, Rem.” The stranger had made his way to the couch, setting down his tray on the table before turning a bright smile on Patrick. “Hey, I’m Peter. Well, Pete, but technically Peter. Welcome to The Phoenix, I’m sorry it is under such sh- poor circumstances. You doing okay?” Patrick just blinked at Pete, taking in his words as his eyes trailed to the steaming tray, pulling a laugh from his new companion. “Help yourself. Remy and Wiley have already had supper, such as it was. It isn’t anything fancy, just some soup and sandwiches. The tea is good though.” 

“Dad, Mr. Pete made Peanut butter with strawberry jelly that tasted like real berries and bread like Nana Grace makes! And he even cuts the crusts off.” Wiley was nearly vibrating with excitement, her braids bouncing off of her shoulders. He couldn’t hide the warm smile that the girl’s reaction brought, not even if he wanted to. “Did you say thank you to Mr. Pete, Wiles? 

“Of course I did, Daddy.” The haughtiness in the little girl’s tone was bordering on indignant, but in a sweet way that was reserved for only her. “Hey, Remy and Mr. Pete said once you were awake, I could pick out a room, can I Daddy? Pleaseeee?” Big blue eyes widened and a tiny lip pushed out in a pout. Wiley may have looked like Patrick, but her voice in that moment was all Sara and it broke Patrick’s heart just a little. “If it is okay with Mr. Pete, of course.” 

The sound Wiley make was somewhere between dolphin and dog whistle, and she did a dance worthy of an excited meerkat; she absolutely had Patrick’s dancing abilities. “Thanks, Dad! Come on, Remy, let’s go see what room is the best!” With that, both kids were off in an echo of shoes on hardwood and a drift of laughter. 

“What is… is this your inn? Are they going to disrupt any other guests? What do I owe you?” Patrick, still slightly fuzzy headed, blinked and let the questions fall, rapid-fire even as he was handed a cup of tea. The porcelain was warm beneath his hands, and the steam immediately fogged up his glasses. It was calming in a strange way. 

“Yes, no and nothing, seriously. In a town as small as this, there is very little need for rooms this time of year. For the most part, if someone is going to be with their family, they leave to do it. I’m sure you have noticed it is a bit inconvenient.” There was a smile on Pete’s face as he spoke, and he rested his feet on the coffee table, ridiculous fluffy boots and all. 

 

“Ahh, okay. Well, I can pay, I swear. Where, um… where exactly are we?” There was more confusion in Patrick’s voice than he would have liked, but a little bit of the fog was clearing as he took a sip of sweet, spicy tea. 

“I don’t doubt it, but consider it a Christmas gift. I haven’t seen Remy look so happy about a guest since, well ever. We don’t get a whole lot of visitors here, especially in the winter. Things are a bit more forgiving during the summer months, but the more touristy towns tend to get the majority of guests.” Pete spoke with the practiced ease of someone used to working with the public as he sipped at his own tea. “Here is Phoenix Pass, Colorado. Home of… well, not a whole lot, actually. About nine hundred people, a handful of stores, a post office, gas station, school and my inn. We may not have much to offer compared to some places, but I can promise you good food, soft beds and all the coffee you can drink.” There was a clear earnestness in his tone, and no small amount of pride in both his hometown, or what seemed it, and especially his inn. 

 

“Well, thank you, Mr. Wentz. I’m sorry if I was any trouble at all, truly. We were on our way to Aspen and somehow got turned around. I don’t know if it was the storm or my negative sense of direction but… thank you.” Patrick was sincere as he spoke, more grateful than he thought possible, more for Wiley’s sake than his own. 

“No problem, seriously and please call me Pete, Mr. Wentz makes me feel like I am getting called to the principal’s office and those are days I am not eager to relieve.” The words were spoken with an ease and lightness that hinted at far more stories behind them then there was time to get into, at least right now. 

“Alright, Pete it is. I need to make a few phone calls, is there someplace I could charge my phone?” Petting down his pockets as he spoke, Patrick realized that the small device that had always been nearly attached to him was, in fact, missing and he felt a small flicker of panic spark in his belly that blossomed into a full-blown flame when Pete gave him a lopsided, sorry smile. 

“Well, the thing is… It kind of spent some extended time in the snow. It must have fallen when I was getting you out of the car and I didn’t realize it. I’m so sorry.” Pete was genuinely apologetic, holding up a container of rice. Patrick could see the bright orange of his phone case through the grains and he sighed. He had numbers written down, of course, in his planner which… was on his desk in the home studio. In Chicago. Fuck. 

“No, it isn’t your fault, I’m just thankful you helped us. I could… is there someplace I can plug in my laptop, maybe? I could send some e-mails… oh.” Pete didn’t even have to speak, he just shook his head and tilted his chin towards the bay window. 

“I’m sorry dude. Service is sketchy on a good day, but we lost net and phones about noon yesterday. This is day two of this bitch of a storm and it doesn’t show any signs of stopping. The post office is open, if you want, I know a letter isn’t ideal, but it is something? I have boots and extra clothes if you need them, we look about the same size.” The offer was wonderful and Patrick made a mental note to take Pete up on it of course, but first, he needed a few minutes to have a bit of a freakout. He knew that Sara’s parents would be worried sick. He was on vacation so it would take a few days for his agent and the label to realize that he was actually MIA. Maybe the phones would be back by then? 

“Yeah, that’s… I’ll do that. Can I just take a shower, maybe? Is that okay?” he stumbled over his words, thoughts going far faster than he could articulate. Pete nodded with a bright smile, all big teeth, and glee, hopping up and gesturing to the stairs. 

“Of course. I already put your stuff in a room because, well, I was bored. You weren’t out long but you know.” Patrick did not, in fact, know, and simply nodded as he followed the innkeeper up not one but two flights of stairs until they stopped in front of a closed door at the end of a twisting hallway, just beside another flight.

“If you don’t like it, let me know and I can move you. Towels, blankets, candles, flashlights and everything else you may need are in there for you. You have an en-suite and a fireplace which is why I picked this room. Remy is just down the hall and, if my guess if right, Wiley will be pretty close too. I’m upstairs if you need anything.” Pete gestured to the closed door at the top of the last flight of stairs with a smile. It took a moment for Patrick to process everything, his hand on the doorknob. 

“Yes, I will- ah, thank you.” Another bright smile and Pete was off in his furry booths, following behind the peals of laughter that drifted from the other side of the hallway. 

Patrick entered his room without paying much attention and stripped quickly, still chilled from the dampness that lingered in his clothes. It wasn’t until he was standing absently under the hot, pounding spray, still in his glasses, that he realized that maybe this was exactly what he needed. 

 

It took almost two days before Patrick realized what was so different, aside from, well, everything. The blizzard outside showed exactly zero signs of letting up and the calendar was ticking down to Christmas at a rate that would have, had he been anywhere else, been stressful. But that was exactly it; there was no stress. At all. Well, aside from the worry about Grace and Henry that is. He loved Sara’s parents almost as much as his own, and they had been family for longer than he could remember; they treasured Wiley and Patrick as well. Their concern and questions were what he cared the most about but there was literally nothing that they could do. Snowed in with zero contact with the outside world may have sounded horrible but in reality, to Patrick at least, it was kind of perfect. 

He had, more than once while watching Remy and Wiley playing in snow that drifted higher than them and sipping tea at the kitchen table, been transported back to his own childhood. There were no phones ringing, no e-mails to ignore, and no one making demands. It had been a good five years since Patrick had had had a real vacation, away from everything. He and Sara had gone to Hawaii for a combination birthday trip for her and Grammy nomination celebration for him and even then, there had been prying eyes and camera flashes. Pictures of his nearly glowing pale skin and her lovely tan had been splashed over the tabloids for longer than Patrick had cared to pay attention. Here though, in a gorgeous old inn with good company and an unceasing storm outside, there was so much quiet Patrick almost couldn’t stand it. He had never been one for silence, always filling up the space around him with music, or some inane show on the television or even just drumming on a table; for as long as he could remember, silence had been the enemy, uncomfortable and painful. That was the exact opposite here. 

Pete was an easy talker and had no problems starting a conversation about anything, it would seem and they had spent more hours than Patrick could count at the table or on the couch while the kids played talking about life, the universe, and everything. Well, almost everything. Patrick had deftly skirted any questions about his job because he didn’t want to deal with any fallout; there was always something, and Pete didn’t push, a fact for which he was eternally grateful. 

The innkeeper was interesting, to say the least. Born and raised in the Chicago suburbs, a topic which had filled an entire afternoon and evening of conversation all on its own, Pete had spent time playing soccer and skulking around punk clubs, playing bass for a few semi-successful area bands that Patrick actually remembered hearing of in passing. before meeting Remy’s mother. She seemed to be a piece of work, although that could possibly, maybe be the slight crush that Patrick had developed talking. He blamed it on close quarters and some kind of bizarre Florence Nightingale syndrome, but Patrick had always been good at lying to himself, even if he couldn’t lie to anyone else. 

The woman had split when Remy was just a few months old, leaving with little more than a note just around the same time a long-lost aunt passed and left Pete the property. Pete had chosen to cut his losses, such as they were, and move to Phoenix Pass and taken over as innkeeper. He and Remy technically lived in a cottage near the back of the property but more often than not, especially if they didn’t have any technical guests, they just stayed at the inn proper. 

Remy and Wiley had taken to each other almost instantly, striking up a friendship in that magical way that only children could manage and they spent hours debating the finer points of sandcastles versus snow forts and how many carrots made up a meal for Sven in Frozen. All in all, it was kind of perfect, and Patrick truly couldn’t think of a better way to spend his totally unplanned lapse from the real world. 

Christmas eve came before he knew it, along with what seemed to be the annual Phoenix Pass town party, to which Patrick and Wiley were absolutely invited, with no small amount of begging from both kids. There was no way to deny them when they teamed up; in this case even Pete was helpless, although he was the one encouraging them. 

The doorbell rang at nearly seven on Christmas Eve, echoing through the house. The scents of sugar, chocolate, and cinnamon hung heavy in the air, and the Christmas Classics that Patrick had grown up listening to were playing softly. The last two days had been spent baking, cleaning, cooking and decorating; doing those things that Patrick hadn’t even realized that he had missed and Wiley was absolutely in her element. She had insisted on wearing what she called her Elsa dress to the party, the layers of twinkly blue tulle and sequined chiffon not really resembling the snow queen’s gown at all, but Wiley got what she wanted and just as Patrick had tied a ribbon at the end of her braid, she was off in search of Remy, singing in her small, off-key voice the whole way, leaving Patrick to get himself ready. 

 

He had paired a button down and his favorite cardigan with his fedora and bow-tie; the only ones that he had packed for the trip. It was still cold, as it tended to be during blizzards, and he shrugged into the leather jacket that had been not so subtly left on the door to his room. It smelled good, really good. Clinging beneath the leather were bare hints of cologne and something spicy sweet that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He just knew he really liked it. 

Patrick went to functions all the time, it was a part of his job, albeit one he hated. He had, as the years passed with him even remotely in the public eye, gotten better at faking it and even sometimes enjoying himself. Tonight, however, there was a flutter of nerves in his stomach that he couldn't explain. There were no cameras, no speeches, and no pretension: it was a Christmas party, in a tiny little town in the middle of a damn arctic vortex. Nothing to be worried about, right? 

Not right at all. By the time he actually made it downstairs, the entire first floor was full of people milling about, the din of conversation eclipsing the Christmas music and punctuated by loud laughter. He was, suddenly and inexplicably, transported back in time to his high school cafeteria, alone without even a tray of food to hide behind as he searched for a seat. In high school, he had eaten lunch in the bathroom more than once; hopefully that wouldn’t happen tonight. 

“Dad, Dad, Dad! Look what Remy and I made!” Wiley was an angel in disguise, as was the golden-haired boy that followed behind her. Patrick reached the bottom of the stairs, slipping by the literal velvet rope that had been put up to keep people away from the rooms and crouched down to take the picture from his little girl. 

“Is this for me or for Santa?” There was a tease in his voice and Wiley huffed in that very special, put-upon way that only a child could. 

“Daaaad, it is for Santa! Remy said that he would know where we are cause he is magical. And there is a fireplace! We don’t have a fireplace at our house cause it is too hot, but Santa comes in through the balcony doors. My Grandma says that he must park his sleigh in the pool and the reindeers get to take a swim. We’re gonna go find some cookies! Bye, Dad!” With that, the two kids were off in a rush of pale blues and grey’s, weaving through the crowd towards the kitchen and leaving Patrick standing alone, a drawing clutched in his hand. There were moments that Wiley was so much like her mother it was impossible to believe that they had never had any real time together. 

“Did you get the Santa question too?” Pete’s voice, close and low, startled him from his musing and he tripped over his words as he stared at the other man for a moment. He looked good. Really, really good; it was almost unfair the things Pete did to jeans and a button down, another leather jacket topping the entire ensemble and a tie that had a distinctly child-like picture drawn on it. There were two punch cups in his hands and a bright white smile on his face. Patrick felt a little nerdy in comparison and shoved his hands into the pockets of his borrowed jacket, rocking back on the heels of his boots. 

“I did. My mom apparently has been telling tales about reindeers and swimming pools.” He realized how ridiculous he sounded, but the words were out before he could stop them. Pete, ever easy going, offered one of the cups with a raised brown and Patrick accepted it eagerly, taking a sip and nearly sputtering at the strength of the creamy drink. Pete laughed loudly, sounding like nothing so much as a braying ass, and tipped Patrick’s hat to a jaunty angle. 

“Believe me, you are going to need it. Come on, let me show you off.” There was no argument that Patrick could think of as Pete grabbed his hand, lacing warm, calloused fingers easily through Patrick’s, and lead him through the crowd. 

For a town of not even 1000, Phoenix Pass had a lot of lushes. It was just before midnight when the last few guests began to depart, save for the trio of older ladies, blue-tinged hair perfectly arranged and ugly sweaters glittering as they worked away getting everything cleaned up. The raucous laughter echoed through the quiet, snow drifted streets, silencing only once Pete shut and locked the door. 

Patrick was both drained and giddy, the bourbon from his several glasses of eggnog making him giggly and warm, although he had not even considered shedding his jacket, despite his pink cheeks. He hummed while he sat out presents, piling the ones that Santa had gotten for Wiley under the tree, mixing in the ones that Pete put out for Remy, occasionally singing the odd word here or there along with the carols that still played softly. 

“You’re really good.” Pete, once again, startled Patrick and he jumped, nearly bolting upright and stumbling just the tiniest bit over his own feet. 

“I’m really… thank you.” Arguing with Pete on this point would be stupid, although the older man would have no idea why; Patrick’s work had come up a time or two, but he hadn’t gone into any specific and Pete hadn’t pushed because he was a damn angel sent from heaven. “I think that the presents are just about done unless you have any more in hiding.”

“No, no more. Thank you though.” Pete pushed off his perch against the doorframe with a practiced ease and stopped beside Patrick to admire the tree. The lights sparkled and the ornaments and the packages beneath shimmered in the glow, casting an almost otherworldly calm over the entire room, the snow falling softly beyond the windows. 

‘It’s really beautiful.” Patrick was apparently stating the obvious again, although his gaze seemed to dart to the man beside him more than the tree. 

“Peter, we are finished up and are going to-Oh! Well, excuse me, boys, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Elsie, who appeared to be the ringleader of the team of grandmothers that had thrown Pete out of room after room as they cleaned up. 

“No interruption, Elsie, we were just admiring the night. What can I do for you?” Pete spoke smoothly, although Patrick could have sworn there was the faintest hint of pink at the tips of his ears, uncovered by his messy hair. 

“Well, we are all finished cleaning and packing up, so we were going to head home. Please tell me you aren’t planning on breaking tradition, Peter.” There was a certain admonishment in Elsie’s tone that made zero sense to Patrick. That is until he followed Pete’s gaze and Elsie’s pointed finger up into the air. There, attached to the ceiling fan directly above them, was a sprig of mistletoe, bound with bright red ribbon. 

“Elsie, I don’t think that-” Pete was cut off by Patrick’s lips, soft and slightly sweet, in a very chaste, very sweet kiss and had Patrick not been drinking, he probably wouldn’t have had the guts to do it at all. At least that is what he told himself. 

Elsie and the grandma crew just giggled from their doorway, fussing with hoods and hats between endearments until they all left and the door shut with a very final click. Patrick, for his part, was still standing rather dumbstruck and red-cheeked by the tree. The silence between them was heavy, thick with unspoken thoughts and implications, although Patrick refused to hope for any resolution to them, instead shoving his hands in his pockets and catching his thumbs in the belt loops of his black jeans. 

“I think I’m gonna head upstairs for the night, try and get a few hours of sleep before Wiley gets up.” Patrick’s hands were still in his pockets and Pete was just looking at him for a moment before he shook his head and that charming smile was back on his face. 

“No, yeah, go on up. I’m just going to lock up and then do the same. My alarm is set for four thirty because of cookies and milk, you know?” The words were delivered with a casual shrug and half smile that was far, far too attractive. “Goodnight, Trick. Sleep well.” Pete spoke briefly but warmly before turning on his heel and heading into the kitchen, leaving Patrick standing in the glowing lights from the Christmas tree and wondering what in the fuck had just happened. 

He didn’t dwell on it, not really, choosing instead to head up and peek in on Wiley before he headed to his room. She was sprawled across the bed, twisted in the heavy blankets and snoring softly, out like a light and probably wouldn’t move until waking up; she was definitely his daughter. 

As soon as he closed the door behind him, he was stripping off his layers, heavy fingers fumbling with his tie and buttons, leaving a trail of clothes on the way to the bathroom. He was itchy with dried, nervous sweat and cold, his hair stiff with product. He just wanted a shower. It was a bit of post-show ritual for him, a way to ground himself and find a bit of solace. 

Patrick sang to himself as he showered, bits and pieces of songs that lingered in his head, and continued straight through until he was towel drying his hair as steam poured from the bathroom into his bedroom. His party clothes had been traded for a pair of Batman pajama pants and a worn soft navy t-shirt, the color faded from washing and hanging slightly too large on his frame as cleaned up his mess. Jeans, shirt, cardigan, and tie were neatly folded and set on the desk and the jacket… shit, that one wasn’t his. Forgoing shoes, he slipped on his glasses so he wouldn’t fall and break his neck, and gathered the garment before making his way carefully up the stairs towards the attic suite. There was a sliver of light peeking beneath the door and Patrick could hear music, faint and familiar, drifting through the wood. He swallowed thickly once and knocked gently, quickly, before he lost his nerve. 

Any lasting bit of liquid courage that may have been lingering in his system vanished as soon as the door opened. A blast of warm, wet air hit him hard and Patrick blinked, his glasses fogging momentarily from the steam. Once his vision cleared, he pretended, although not very convincingly, that the steam was the reason for his dumbstruck silence; It was not. 

Pete stood there, looking like temptation and salvation all mixed together. His honey tinted skin was still wet from a shower, and water droplets still clung to him, glinting in the low light and making Patrick wonder exactly what the dark lines of ink that seemed to be fucking everywhere would feel like under his tongue. The fact that he was clad in a pair of towels was absolutely no help whatsoever, not in the traditional sense anyway, and it wasn’t until he spoke that Patrick was able to gain some semblance of control over his ridiculously traitorous hormones. 

“Patrick, are you alright?” There was genuine concern in Pete’s voice, even with a tiny smile playing on his lips, and he bent slightly to catch Patrick’s gaze. 

“Am I…of course I’m alright. I, ah- I brought your jacket back.” It sounded like a lame excuse and Patrick was well aware of that fact, mostly because it was, and he regretted it even as he held out the jacket. Pete smiled, warm and genuine, stepping back and pulling his door open, but not taking the garment. 

“Thank you. Did you want to come in?” 

No, Patrick did not want to come in. He wanted to turn around, head back to his room, crawl between the covers and jerk off. So of course, he followed Pete instead. Because Patrick was the king of good decision making tonight. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and Patrick shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wracking his brain for something to say while talking in his surroundings. The room was large, spanning most of the length of the inn, and decorated in soothing shades of green, white and grey. There was a stall shower tucked in one corner and a door that probably led to a bathroom beside it. Ahead of him were a pair of french doors that looked out over the property, although there wasn’t much to see right now beyond the darkness of the night sky and the snow that, although it had slowed considerably, was still falling. “Thank you, I’m sorry about earlier. Can I blame the eggnog?” The silence that hung between them while Pete openly considered his words was comfortable and warm, although that could have been the blush that was staining Patrick’s cheeks. 

“You can if you want, but I really wish you wouldn’t apologize. To be frank, I’ve wanted to do exactly that since you woke up on my couch.” The words were delivered with such a casual ease that Patrick just blinked, barely keeping his mouth from falling open as Pete tossed the towel that had been hanging over his shoulders into the nearby hamper with an ease that Patrick envied. 

“Really?” The surprise in his voice was evident even to Patrick and Pete laughed softly, the sound warm and sweet as he stopped and brushed a still damp lock of hair from Patrick’s forehead. 

“Really. You honestly couldn’t tell? Dude, I’ve basically been hitting on you since day one. I was starting to think my signals were crossed.” There was a glint of something in Pete’s eyes that Patrick couldn’t quite place, but he like it; that much he was sure of. “I was about to break out the cheesy pickup lines.” 

“Cheesy lines, huh? Maybe you should try one and see where it gets you. Hit me with your best shot.” There was a lightness in his voice that he had been missing since… well, almost forever. Patrick wasn’t one for flirting, it always made him feel awkward. Pete took that as a good thing; it was. 

Warm fingers trailed along the collar of Patrick’s shirt as a slow lazy grin spread across Pete's face just before he leaned in towards Patrick, his breath warm and sweet. “You look so good in blue.” It was cheesy, beyond it even, but Patrick didn’t care, not in the slightest. He turned his head and caught Pete’s lips in a heated kiss, one filled with both promise and passion, as hands fisted in his shirt, giving the slightest pull on the worn cotton. 

“Jesus Christ, Trick.” The words were muffled against Patrick’s neck, Pete’s hands tight over his pajama-clad hips while Patrick’s fingers explored as much of the tawny, inked skin that he could. It wasn’t nearly enough. It was easy with Pete, somehow, everything was. Insecurities and there were many, fell to the wayside as skilled hands pulled and tugged at pajamas, towels were tossed aside and there was soft bedding beneath his back as he stretched out on the down comforter. Pete looked at him carefully, arms on either side of Patrick’s head where it lay on a pillow that smelled exactly like the leather jacket had; it was Pete. 

“You okay with this?” There was a strong thigh pressing against Patrick’s cock and he very nearly whined, pressing up into Pete’s warm weight. 

“I’m not… it’s been awhile.” The words were gasped out on a whimper and Pete stilled, trailing a line of wet, hot kisses up Patrick’s jaw to his ear. 

“How long?” 

“Long. Aside from a one night stand, there hasn’t been anyone since Sara and Jesus Christ Pete if you don’t do something, I’m going to hump your leg like a dog.” There was more than an edge of desperation in Patrick's voice, and no exaggeration either; he needed this more than he cared to admit and Pete knew it. 

“It’s okay, Patrick. Roll over for me.” The words were quiet, with a subtle sweetness behind them and Patrick did as he was asked, rolling over so his face was buried in the pillows. Between them and the warm, sold weight of Pete against his back, Patrick was surrounded by the man and it was intoxicating, although the very hard dick that was pressed firmly against Patrick’s hip may have played a part in that. 

 

Pete’s lips grazed the back of Patrick’s neck, tickling the hairs at his nape and trailed down his spine with a slow, teasing thoroughness that had Patrick rutting against the mattress beneath him, the sheets fisted in his hands and his breath coming in broken pants. The slight sting of teeth nipping at his ass was soothed almost instantly by a tender kiss and Patrick had to bite back a cry, pulling his lip between his teeth. 

“I’d say I wanted to hear you, but that may not be the best choice right now. One day when we are alone though, I’m going to see just how loud you can be.” The words were muffled against Patrick’s skin and he could feel the cool slickness of Pete’s teeth and strong hands against his ass as his cheeks were separated and a warm, wet tongue trailed down between them, lapping over the exposed pucker. Patrick’s tenuous hold on composure was gone in a heartbeat, his cry muffled into the pillows. Obviously pleased with himself, Pete repeated the action, again and again, humming against Patrick’s ass while the younger man squirmed beneath him, a light sheen of sweat springing up over his skin. 

“Pete’, I’m gonna- I need- fuck. Please..” Pete’s voice was breath and desperate, aching for something that he had convinced himself he didn’t really need. 

“It’s okay, Trick. I’ve got you, just hold on for a minute.” The warm weight was gone and Patrick could head the sliding of a drawer before the bed beside him dipped again and the double click of a cap sounded almost obscenely loud in the quiet of the room. Focusing on relaxing, Patrick took a deep breath as Pete worked back between his legs, tongue once again probing at his hole, but now with a lube slick finger alongside it, soon joined by a second as Pete worked him open between gasped breaths and mutterings that Patrick couldn’t quite hear through his own stifled moans. And then there was nothing; fingers and tongue were gone in a heartbeat and Patrick felt absurdly empty as he twisted back to look over his shoulder. 

Pete had sat back on his heels, hard cock in hand and a glinting of discarded foil on the bed beside him as he rolled on a condom, his eyes hooded and lazy with lust as he met Patrick’s gaze. “How do you-”

“I want to see you. Please.” Not normally one for interrupting, his mother and media training made sure of his manners, Patrick blurted the request out before Pete could even finish his question and he was rewarded with a beaming smile; it was fucking light, and he squirmed ungracefully onto his back, absently shoving a pillow beneath his hips. Just because he hadn’t had sex for far too long, didn’t mean that he hadn’t figured out the best ways to get himself off, even if they could be a bit difficult. 

“You’re so eager.” Pete somehow managed to laugh as he spoke, sliding on his knees between Patrick’s parted legs and pausing to just look at him, a gold tinted hand firm against a pale him, as his other wrapped around his cock and lined up, not moving, simply pushing in the slightest suggestion of pressure. 

“It’s been a long fucking time, okay?” He wasn’t bitchy, not in the slightest, but Patrick’s head was dizzy with need and he wasn’t exactly utilizing his brain to mouth filter as he wriggled, slipping down slightly and shifting to rest his ankles against an astonished looking Pete’s shoulders. “Yoga.” It was one word, far from embarrassing, but Patrick felt his face flame as Pete looked down at him.

“You’re fucking amazing, Baby.” the words were nearly a whisper in the darkness, spoken just before Pete pushed forward and Patrick lost himself in pleasure. 

 

Christmas morning dawned clear and cold, and far too early. Patrick had woken up, sweaty and sticky with sweat, lube and come, in Pete’s bed, with the man himself wrapped around him like some kind of affectionate octopus. It was both endearing and hot as fuck although the need to silence the alarm that was blaring The Pussycat Dolls at Four O’clock in the fucking morning took precedence over cuddling. 

Presents were arranged, cookies crumbled and milk dripped before two excited children came bounding down the stairs, shrieking with laughter as they saw the piles of gifts from Santa. The snow had stopped sometime overnight and the ringing of a cellphone as they all sat sipping cocoa and nibbling on cinnamon rolls was almost foreign to their ears. Pete had excused himself to take his call and seemed pleased when he returned, curling up on the sofa beside Patrick and tucking his bare feet under his thigh. 

“Do you think I could use your phone? I know Wiley’s grandparents must be losing their minds.” There was some information very explicitly left out of the request but Pete obliged happily, handing the device over with a grin. 

Patrick’s calls lasted for almost a half an hour, Sara’s parents first on the list and then his management and label, just for good measure. He explained, somewhat, where he was and that they were still snowed in. First and foremost though, was that he was okay. The police had been called and that was a fucking nightmare but, according to his agent, the speculation of his whereabouts had fueled album sales. Patrick felt a little sick as he disconnected the call but put on a happy face as he settled back in beside Pete, watching Wiley and Remy play and letting the joy of the moment, of the entire vacation wash back over him until any other thoughts vanished. 

The sweetness never lasted, though. As with most of the really amazing things in Patrick’s life, it came to an end with a glorifying and painful crash, when least expected. It was two days after Christmas and the storm had finally stopped. The road in Phoenix Pass had been slow to clear but between days spent in front of the fire and nights in Pete’s bed, Patrick was not complaining, even though he knew that he and Wiley would have to go back home someday. His car was fixed, picked up and dropped off by the mechanic for a surprisingly reasonable sum and Patrick just wanted to get a notebook from the glovebox. He’d had a melody kicking around in his head since Christmas Eve and he was itching to get it down on paper. 

Patrick had expected the cold, and even the bright glint of the sunlight off of the crystalline snow, it was winter in the mountains; that is what happened. What he hadn’t anticipated in a million years, however, was the blinding camera flash that erupted from beside his car. And then another, and two more. He had stood, stunned for an instant, before Pete tugged him inside, slamming the door behind him. 

That… that had been the beginning of the end. While the kids played upstairs, Patrick sat on the same couch he had woken up on just over a week ago and let the words spill out, all of it including the dirty details like the desperate paparazzi and news crews that, although few in number, were definitely out of place in the tiny town. He kept his gaze trained on his boots the whole time he spoke, as though the wet leather held the answer to every question he may have had. It was only when he finished talking that he looked up again, forcing himself to meet Pete’s eyes. He didn’t like what he saw, at all. There was pain in the amber depths, and no small amount of distrust either. 

“I think you should go.” Pete's voice wavered in a way that Patrick had never heard and he felt a stab of pain in his chest, however ridiculous or soon it may have been. 

“Pete, I didn’t-” 

“No. You need to go, Patrick. You have a life to get back to, we both knew that, and one that doesn’t include me. But apparently does include fucking camera crews. This is my fucking HOME Patrick, my son lives here. You may be used to, to that-” Pete punctuated his words with a gesture to the window, the curtains already drawn, “But we aren’t. This is just… Let Wiley and Remy say goodbye, they don’t need to know about this, but you need to go. Today.”

“Pete, I’m sorry. I didn’t- I’m sorry.” His voice broke slightly as Pete walked out of the room and tears stung at his eyes, but Patrick managed to keep them at bay for the next few hours until Wiley was strapped in the car and he stood with the last of their bags at the door. 

“I hope you enjoyed your stay at The Phoenix. Mr. Stump. Drive safely.” The words were cold, more even than the freezing air, and the clicking of the door as it closed was so final that it echoed in the once peaceful quiet of the tiny town. In that moment, Patrick’s heart broke a little, as did his tenuous control over his emotions, and the tears he had been struggling so hard to keep at bay slipped free, hot on his cheeks. When Wiley asked about it as they drove off, he blamed it on the wind. 

He didn’t forget about Pete, and Wiley didn’t forget about Remy, not even as the months ticked away, no matter how much he tried. Patrick was haunted almost, by whiskey eyes and dark ink on honey-hued skin, the ghosts of memories working their way into his songs as he spent day after day in the studio while Wiley was at school. He hadn’t been prepared for the envelope that appeared on the table in front of him as he picked at some pad thai, addressed to him and Wiley in spidery handwriting, care of the label. Turning it over he caught sight of the return address on the back and knocked a bottle of water over as he pulled it open. 

His manager looked at him blankly, but Patrick didn’t care, muttering excuses as he gathered up his belongings, shoving papers and laptop in his bag before shouting over his shoulder that he would be back as he headed out into the late March sunshine. His first stop was to get gas, and his second was to get his daughter. The little girl was confused at first, but she quickly fell into a deep sleep as the miles ticked by. 

The snow started falling just as they crossed over into Colorado; fat, wet flakes that seemed to taunt Patrick with every swish of his wiper blades and built up on the dark asphalt. Wiley was singing happily in the back seat, headphones on and oblivious as she lost herself in whatever adventure Sophia The First was telling today. 

There was a strange feeling of deja vu as the car crept through the mountain roads at a pace worthy of a geriatric snail; Patrick still hated driving in the snow, but this was worth it. April Fool’s indeed. Surprise! Have a blizzard. 

His hands were clenched tight on the wheel, knuckles going white from nerves that were not entirely due to the driving conditions as he caught sight of a familiar green sign just off the side of the road. A quick glance in the rear view showed Wiley out cold, her purple hat askew and mouth falling open as she napped without the vaguest idea of what was happening. That was probably for the best. Turning off the paved main road the car slowed to a near crawl as the windshield was very nearly whited out; Patrick could barely see a few feet in front of him, much less know where he was going, but a flash of muted blue and grey on the side of the road caught his attention and he slowly, carefully eased the car to a stop, leaving the engine on but locking the doors before heading out into the storm. 

Patrick wasn’t dressed for the weather, at all, and the wetness that soaked through his jeans after his first slip and fall on the way up to the porch was more than proof of that. He kept the red envelope clutched in his hand though, spotted and dripping with snow. 

His teeth were chattering as he finally made it up the steps to ring the doorbell, his nerves jangling louder than the sound that echoed through the house. The moment he spent waiting for it to open was one of the longest of his entire life and when it finally did, and he was greeted with both surprise and affection from the man on the other side of the door, every mile was worth it. Pete opened his mouth to speak but his attempt was thwarted by Patrick pulling him close and meeting his lips in a kiss that was steeped in apologies, longing, and promise. Both men were breathing heavy, and flushed by the time they parted, sly smiles playing on their faces. 

“Welcome to The Phoenix, how long will you be staying with us today?”

“As long as you’ll have me?” Patrick dared to be hopeful and Pete just laughed, loud and warm. 

“I’ll get your room ready, go get Wiley and get your ass in here before you freeze, you fool.” 

Once the door closed behind him for the last time and the laughter of the two children echoed through the air Patrick felt, for the first time since he had left Chicago so long ago like he was home.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found at AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet on Tumblr; come say hi! Don't forget to leave gifts (Comments and kudos) for your favorite writers and artists! It's a free gift without all the extra packaging!


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